


The Christmas Visitor

by dustnik



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustnik/pseuds/dustnik
Summary: Set in the late 1970s. A dejected Paul finds himself alone in Scotland at Christmas until a unexpected guest appears on his doorstep.





	The Christmas Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complete work of fiction. It never happened but should have ;-)

The snow had been falling heavily since yesterday on the peaceful, Scottish countryside. Now this morning, the wind had begun to gust, making visibility difficult and creating large drifts that blocked the roads. Paul McCartney sat glumly by the window gazing out on the stark, white beauty surrounding him. Linda had just called to inform him that all flights from London to Scotland had been cancelled due to the worsening weather. She and the children would be on the first flight out late the following day when conditions were expected to improve. He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice, but he knew that she had heard it. For the first time in his life, he would be spending Christmas alone.

The old farmhouse had been lovingly decked out for the holidays. The refrigerator and pantry were thoroughly stocked with a tempting array of staples and family favorites. A cord of wood was chopped and neatly stacked, ready to feed a roaring fire. Fresh green boughs and sprigs of holly were hung everywhere while an enormous Scots pine tree stood unadorned in the corner, boxes of treasured decorations placed carefully beneath it.

The phone rang again, startling the unhappy man from his reverie. Thank God, the phone lines were still working—for now, at least. He lifted the receiver eagerly in the desperate hope that it was Linda telling him that they were somehow able to make it after all. But the voice on the line wasn’t that of his American-born wife. “Happy Crimble, Macca.”

Paul smiled in instant recognition. “John!” Then remembering the five hour time difference between them, he added, “It must be very early there in New York.”

“I’m back in merry olde England with Yoko and Sean. We’re staying here with Mimi, and Julian is spending his school holiday with us too—a good old-fashioned, dysfunctional family Christmas.”

Paul questioned the wisdom of having Mimi and Yoko under the same roof but knew to stay silent on that score. “It sounds grand, John.” He attempted to keep the wistfulness out of his voice.

But his old friend had heard it. “What’s wrong?”

McCartney bit his lip, not wanting to let his own disappointment spoil John’s good humor. “Linda called before. She said that because of the storm, she and the kids won’t be able to get up here until late tomorrow.”

“God, Paul, I’m sorry. I know how much Christmas means to you.”

“It's okay,” the dejected man mumbled unconvincingly. He changed the subject. “I’m still going to see you back in New York in June, right?”

“June, yeah. Listen, I’ve got to hang up now. Mimi gave Sean a biscuit, and Yoko is throwing a fit over it.” He added softly, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Good bye, John.” Paul placed the receiver back in its cradle. He fixed himself a small meal of toast and tea and lit a blazing fire in the grate. After all, he might as well be comfortable while he waited. He switched on the nearby radio, and immediately, warm holiday music filled the room. McCartney sighed and curled up on the sofa, opening a favorite Dickens novel that he’d begun earlier. Several hours later, he closed the book loudly and started searching for something else to do.

Stepping lightly over to the piano, he began playing a tender ballad that would appear on his upcoming album. The chorus and some of the lyrics had been giving him trouble, stubbornly refusing to fall into place. After wrestling with numerous chord combinations, he gave up in frustration. Maybe after the holiday, he would call John and beg his help on it. Luckily, the lyrics came somewhat easier. He scribbled lines of words carelessly on a clean sheet of paper, repeatedly crossing out and inserting new ones. Finally satisfied with the result, he closed the lid over the keys.

Paul suddenly remembered the vintage bottle of scotch he was saving for the following day and decided to open it now. He retrieved the bottle and a glass from the kitchen and returned to the sofa, pouring himself a liberal amount. It went down smoothly, even for so early in the day. He threw another log on the fire, listening to it hiss and pop loudly in the grate. Soon he was feeling sentimental, as was his way when he drank. He was remembering the Christmases of his childhood, the ones back in Liverpool with Mike and their parents, both gone now. The house was always full of family, friends, and neighbors. They would sing carols by the fire while his father accompanied them on their old piano. His mum would roast an enormous turkey, served with all the trimmings, and he felt like the luckiest kid in the world. Paul wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.

He poured himself another large drink, remembering other Christmases when he wasn’t able to be home, back in his Beatle days. There was that one in Hamburg, hurriedly gulping down their meal in a little German diner before beginning their nightly set. And later while touring, Christmas would sometimes find them far from home, consuming their dinner in a hotel room somewhere with only their usual entourage in attendance. John would regale them with holiday stories from his past, most involving his oh-so-proper Aunt Mimi dragging young John to the local Anglican church. He did a spot-on imitation of Mimi and the vicar that had them in hysterics. He had made it all okay then, just as he had promised Paul on the phone that it would be okay now.

These last few years with Linda had been great too, although the turkey had now been replaced by one made of tofu. He loved experiencing Christmas with his children, seeing it again for the first time through their eyes. God, he missed them all so much.

Paul rose to use the loo and found himself staggering a great deal. He made his way down the hallway, carefully steadying himself to keep from falling. Upon his return, he was relieved to sink back onto the comfortable, overstuffed sofa. Between the numbing effect of the alcohol and the fire’s comforting warmth, he was feeling quite drowsy. He lay down, pulling a large, colorful quilt over him. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.

He didn’t know how long he’d been slumbering there, but when he awoke, it was dark. It took a minute for his head to clear. He rose and threw another log on the dying fire, hearing the sound of a snowplow slowly receding into the distance after temporarily cleared the blowing, drifting snow from the main road. The fire was crackling loudly now as the log began to burn. Paul sat and stared at it for a long time, hypnotized by the dancing flames. He had just poured himself another drink when he heard a loud knock on the front door. Who could it be, tonight of all nights? He grabbed a heavy brass poker from the fireplace before approaching the door. After all, no one but a drunkard or a madman would venture out willingly on a night like this.

Holding the poker firmly at his side, he opened the door quickly, nearly causing the wreath hanging there to fall to the ground. The person standing outside jumped back in surprise. He was clad from head to toe in bulky winter coverings, all dusted with a thin layer of snow. “What do you want?” Paul demanded gruffly, attempting to sound tougher than he felt.

“Now, Macca, is that any way to greet a guest?”

“John?”

“So are you going to let me in before I freeze my bollocks off?”

Paul stepped aside, allowing the other man to enter. His face wore a look of amazement.

John was quickly removing his coat and boots, his scarecrow frame buried under layers of heavy clothing. He held his icy fingers to the fire, noticing the fireplace poker still clutched in Paul’s hand. “And what were you planning to do with that thing?”

“I was planning to bash your brains in if you turned out to be a nutter or something.”

John pulled one of his crazy faces. “A poker, eh? Well, what’s a little poke between friends?”

“What are you doing here, you maniac? And how in the world did you get here?”

“All in good time, Paulie. First, how about some of whatever you have in that bottle there? It’s no good drinking alone, son.” 

Paul went to the kitchen to retrieve another tumbler. By the time he returned, John had made himself comfortable on the sofa, warming himself by the fire. Paul poured him a generous amount of scotch, handing him the glass.

“Ta.”

“So now are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“You just sounded so depressed this morning on the phone. I got to thinking of you up here all alone feeling sorry for yourself and knew I had to come save you from a night of sentimental sniveling. It took me nearly all day to get here too. I took a train most of the way and hitchhiked the rest. No one recognized me with the scarf and hood covering my face. I caught a ride out here with the bloke driving the snowplow, but then I had to walk the rest of the way through all that buggering snow.”

Paul was deeply grateful for Lennon’s company. “Thanks. I didn’t really fancy spending Christmas by myself. But what about Yoko and Mimi and the boys?”

“Oh, right. I told them I’d be back tomorrow. Besides, I couldn’t take any more of Yoko and Mimi screaming their bloody heads off at each other. They’re not really hitting it off like I’d hoped.” 

_Big surprise there_ , thought Paul. “Are you hungry, John?” he asked hopefully. The other man had become alarmingly thin of late, causing his old friend much concern.

“Starving, actually.”

Paul hurried happily off to the kitchen to fix them something to eat, hearing John’s voice trailing behind him. “And none of that veggie crap either.”

McCartney returned with a tray full of cheese sandwiches. “Sorry, mate. It’s the best I could do.” The two men wolfed down the sandwiches greedily, washing them down with more scotch.

“I still can’t believe you’re here. I don’t remember the last time we were alone like this. I’ve missed you, John.”

“Now don’t get all sappy on me, Macca, or I’ll thump you for it.” But the smile on John’s face clearly showed that he was pleased. He continued, “So what’s the family doing down in London anyroad?”

“Oh, Linda wanted to take in a few shows and do some last minute Christmas shopping. It’s the one time of year when we really spoil the kids.”

John nodded. “Sean has every bleeding thing a kid could want, not like in our day, you know.” He said the last in a shaky old-man voice.

“That’s for sure. I remember one year, I wanted a bicycle; it was all I could think about. But bikes were dear, so I didn’t really expect to get one. Then on Christmas morning, there it was, sitting by the tree. It’s one of my happiest childhood memories.”

Lennon offered him a wry grin.

“What did you want when you were a kid, John?”

The other man looked down pensively at his drink, swirling the amber liquor around in his glass. “I just wanted my mum and dad to come back, so we could be a real family.” He threw back the scotch, finishing it in one gulp. “But that never happened, did it?”

Paul regretted bringing up such a painful reminder and quickly changed the subject. “Hey, how about some of Linda’s homemade fudge?” He knew that John couldn’t resist chocolate.

“Now you’re talking, mate.”

McCartney disappeared back into the kitchen, this time returning with a plate of rich treats. He laughed as John gleefully grabbed a large handful. Paul knew that Yoko wouldn’t allow him sweets at home, inexplicably not wishing him to gain weight.

John seemed to read his mind. “Well? She’s not here then, is she?” His eyes circled the room, stopping on the bare pine tree in the corner. “A bit plain, isn't it?”

“Linda and I and the kids always decorate it together on Christmas Eve. It’s kind of a family tradition,” Paul replied sheepishly.

“So, let’s us do it. I mean, after all, the little Maccas can’t come home to a bare Christmas tree, can they?”

Paul looked over at his friend to see if he was having him on, but John was totally serious. He could be an unexpectedly nice guy sometimes.

“Right, then. The lights and ornaments are underneath.” He removed the stacks of boxes and pulled the tree out from the wall, grabbing a ladder from the cupboard. The two men worked diligently, wrapping the strings of colorful lights around the branches, while harmonizing in loud liquor-fueled voices with the familiar carols on the radio. Paul climbed the ladder in order to reach the higher branches while John leered at him from below. “Still the best arse I’ve ever seen on a bloke.”

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you, you pouf,” Paul teased.

John fluttered his thick eyelashes at him.

Next came the ornaments. As McCartney removed each one carefully from its box, he would study it closely before passing it to John. Many of them had sentimental value. He picked up a little silver bell covered in glitter. “Heather gave me this the first Christmas after I married her mother. And this one Mary made for Linda in art class.” He held out a reindeer made from pipe cleaners.

“What’s this one?” John pointed to a fragile looking gold star. “It looks really old.”

Paul smiled wistfully. “My mum bought that for my very first Christmas.”

John nodded solemnly. “I guess she knew that you were a star, even then. We’ll have to hang it somewhere in the front where you can see it.” 

Paul loved the way John always understood how it was with his mother without him having to explain. It was one of the many things they shared.

“Hold on. What’s this?” John held up a round ornament with the words Hamburg Germany, 1962 on it. He had given it to Paul many years ago as a joke. “I can’t believe you kept this, you sentimental twat.” But Paul noticed that John hung it next to the one from his mother.

At length, all the boxes were empty. Paul climbed the ladder one last time and placed the final decoration on top of the tree. It was an angel with long auburn hair and little gold-framed glasses. Linda had bought it several years earlier, laughingly noting its resemblance to his “ex-wife”, to which Paul had quickly replied, “Only in appearance.” 

“Remind you of anyone you know?” he asked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

John folded his hands upwards, mimicking its expression of pious innocence.

At last, the tree was finished, and everything was put back in place. Paul plugged it into the wall socket, and the two men collapsed on the sofa to admire their work. “That’s a good-looking tree, that is,” Paul declared.

John turned to face him. “Beautiful.” He slid closer to his friend, kissing him lightly on the mouth.

Paul giggled. “What was that for?”

“Mistletoe.”

The dark-haired man looked up, laughing. “There’s no mistletoe, you git.”

“Ah, a grievous oversight, that.” John picked up a long length of red ribbon that had fallen from one of the boxes, twirling it around his calloused fingers.

Paul rested his head on John’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, love.”

They sat for a long while in comfortable silence, sipping their scotch, as the flickering firelight danced across their contented faces. Outside the wind howled, and the wet snow pelted the windows, but inside, all was warm and cozy.

Finally John spoke. “Look at the two of us, sitting here like an old married couple.”

“Are we?”

“Well, we could be, if you play your cards right.” Lennon waggled his thick eyebrows suggestively at the other man. He began to twist the ribbon again. “Did you get me a gift?”

“I didn’t even know you were coming, remember?”

“I see a package I’d like to open.” 

Paul shook his head in amusement.

“Well, it is Christmas, and I deserve a present, don’t I?” 

“And what is it you want, John?” Paul asked teasingly.

“You know what I want, Macca. I mean, it seems only fair, you having gotten your bike and all.” 

“But have you been a good boy?”

Lennon smirked. “Let me show you just how good I am.” He drew the other man toward him, kissing him harder this time.

Paul pushed him away, chuckling. “That’s enough scotch for you, son.” He loaded the rest of the liquor and fudge onto the tray and carried them out to the kitchen. There, he rinsed out the glasses, placing them carefully in the sink, and wrapped up the remaining fudge for John to take with him the following day. Returning to the other room, his face took on a quizzical expression. The quilt had been spread out neatly in front of the fire with two throw pillows tossed casually on top, barely visible in the dim light. As he got nearer, another larger form became clear.

Paul threw back his dark head and roared with laughter.

It was John lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, head in hand. He flashed him a lunatic grin, wearing nothing but the red ribbon tied in a bow around his manhood. “Happy Christmas, Paul.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”


End file.
